


clampity clamp little stumplet

by the_ragnarok



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: BDSM, Cock & Ball Torture, M/M, Nipple Clamps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-10 12:17:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2024871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now Patrick takes his time in the shower, letting himself settle back into his skin before Pete takes him right out of it again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	clampity clamp little stumplet

Pete’s got a new toy. Patrick can tell by the way Pete will look at him, light up, and then start cackling.

There wasn’t time before the show to ask. Now Patrick takes his time in the shower, letting himself settle back into his skin before Pete takes him right out of it again. When he’s clean and calm, he emerges, not bothering to put any clothes on before getting his phone and checking for instructions.

As expected, there’s an SMS from Pete:  _clampity clamp little stumplet_.

Patrick snorts even as he blushes, opening his luggage in search of the little jewelery box Pete gave him two months back. He’s a little surprised at how steady his hands are, taking the clamps out. They bite hard. In the beginning, Patrick couldn’t have them on for more than a few seconds.

Practice makes perfect, though. He firms his nipple up with a touch, feeling weirdly distanced from himself, places the clamps and latches. He lets out the air in his lungs with a long, silent Ah, letting the burn wash over him, accepting it and quieting again before he does the other one.

By the time Pete gets in the room Patrick’s dopey already, breathing slow and controlled, feeling pain spark through him, red and silver. “’S pretty,” he remembers telling Pete once, high out of his mind on endorphins. “Pretty like you.”

Pete laughed and kissed him. Patrick wonders if he remembers, too. He thinks of asking, but what comes out is, “Did you get me something?”

Now, again, Pete laughs and kisses him, dropping into a crouch in front of Patrick. “Yeah.” He’s got a little bag out, and he deposits the contents in Patrick’s hands. It’s a heavy square frame with little screws on the side, steel by the look of it, and Patrick has no idea what it could be used for. He frowns. “Did you get this from a hardware store?”

Pete pulls something else from the bag. A picture of a man with the frame clamped around his balls.

Patrick sucks in a breath and takes the picture, feeling the weigh of the frame in his hand. In the picture, the man’s balls are pulled away from his body, bunched together. His cock is erect, dripping.

“Do you like it?” Pete says. His voice is very soft.

Patrick nods, carefully. His eyes have gone wide. He thinks his head might drop off if he moves too fast.

Pete evidently has no such compunctions. The minute Patrick shows willing, Pete’s off, stripping like he’s going for a record. “How are you feeling?” he asks once the room’s been decorated with Pete’s terrible shirts.

Patrick frowns thoughtfully. His nipples are sore. He knows this the same way he knows it’s time to tape his calluses, a distant awareness of pain that isn’t bad, exactly, it’s just information. “I’m good.”

In a flash, Pete’s got his earnest face on. “You are.” He’s kneeling in front of Patrick, palm on Patrick’s cheek. “You’re the best, you’re fucking perfect.”

Normally this is Patrick’s cue to roll his eyes, to kick Pete, to shut him up using whatever means necessary. But he’s sitting in a hotel room without a stitch of clothing on, all his naked vulnerabilities on display, and Pete can say anything he wants to him now.

He spreads his legs for Pete, lets him work, biting his lip when he feels Pete’s hands on his nuts. “I’m close,” he realizes.

Pete just kisses the inside of his thigh. “You can come if you want to.”

Patrick shakes his head, keeps shaking it as Pete reaches up and flicks the clamps. He doesn’t let himself curse, forces himself tense and stiff and endures the pain, loves it, lets it crawl up inside him where the arousal was until he can’t tell them apart anymore.

He’s soft when he looks down next, Pete still manipulating his junk, but Patrick feels the same heat curling inside his belly and at the base of his spine. It’s just less urgent now. He smiles down at Pete, huge and goofy, knowing that Pete won’t care. Loving him.

Pete looks up when he starts tightening the screws. He’s got a two-finger grip on Patrick’s cock, not enough contact to get him going, just keeping it out of the way. Patrick starts to close his eyes, then stops at Pete’s sharp headshake.

“It’s harder if I’m looking.” Patrick’s voice is wobbling.

“I know.” It’s a testament to how invested Pete is in this that he doesn’t use the opening Patrick just gave him, however unwittingly. He just plants a kiss on Patrick’s knee and says, “You got this,” tightening the screws a little further.

And that’s the best thing, the most amazing thing, because Pete’s right. It hurts, hurts like hell, but Patrick can take it, can feel it building up inside him into something new and wild and unexpected. He’s not silent for long. He’s cursing, for a little bit, but then he’s laughing, sheer joy bubbling up from him because he’s bigger than pain and he can take this, he can take anything.

Pete rocks back on his heels, watching him and smiling. He’s hard, jacking himself lazily. “Can I come on your chest?”

“Knock yourself out,” Patrick says before melting into another fit of giggles. Getting drunk had never felt this good, and thank fuck for that, because if it did he’s probably have liver poisoning by now. As it is, if sometimes the vests he wears on stage hide nipple clamps, nobody has to know.

Pete’s looks at him like he’s memorizing, hand moving faster on his cock. Then he pinches the head of Patrick’s cock, spurting at the sound of Patrick’s startled yelp.

For a little while, both of them drift. The only contact between them is Pete’s hand resting clumsily on Patrick’s thigh. Then he shakes himself and moves back. “I’m going to take this off,” he says, grabbing one of the nipple clamps.

Patrick nods jerkily. This time, when he closes his eyes, Pete doesn’t say anything. Patrick opens his mouth but nothing comes out, an electric burst of pain welling up in him, too large to get out.

Almost as soon as it’s off he feels the familiar warmth of Pete’s mouth, Pete’s fingers curling around his cock. His balls are still bound, still pulsing and hurting, one nipple getting soothed by Pete’s tongue and the other pinched mercilessly by the clamp. It’s too much. Patrick mouths something like that, but doesn’t let it out.

Instead he says, “I want to come.”

“I want you to come, too.” Pete says it against his skin, hot air on his painfully sensitive nipple. His fingers circle over the head of Patrick’s cock, tantalizing. Not enough. He bites playfully at Patrick’s nipple, laughing when Patrick forgets and bucks against him, howling when all the aches he’d acclimated to blossom into agony.

“Yeah,” Pete says, and gives Patrick’s nipple another pinch. “Like that.” His teasing fingers prod at Patrick’s slit, move down to his aching balls, then further down to his hole, and Patrick comes with a dry fingertip just breaching his entrance.

“Going to be a bitch in the morning,” Patrick says once his breath has settled some. He sounds raspy, coughs to clear it out. “Was I yelling?” He does it sometimes without noticing.

“Nah, you were fine.” Pete kisses Patrick’s shoulder, his cheek, his closed eyelids. “You were perfect.”

“Flatterer,” Patrick says. He opens his eyes, moves to rub at the wetness at their corners when Pete grabs his hand.

Pete brings their foreheads together, shares the air Patrick’s breathing, looks him in the eye while Patrick remembers who he is and where he is and what he is apart from blood and skin and bones. Then Pete licks the wetness off Patrick’s face, and smiles.


End file.
